


Smoked

by motorcitydreams, writinginthesecrettrees



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Drinking, M/M, Masturbation, Past Dean Winchester/John Winchester - Freeform, Past Underage Sex, Smoking, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 04:01:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20557898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motorcitydreams/pseuds/motorcitydreams, https://archiveofourown.org/users/writinginthesecrettrees/pseuds/writinginthesecrettrees
Summary: John offers Dean a cigarette, and Dean shakes his head. Says “Sammy doesn’t like it,” and John just knows, feels his heart drop into his stomach.





	Smoked

Dean started smoking at sixteen because he wanted to know what John’s kisses tasted like and it wasn’t long until they start smoking together, then drinking together… Soon after that Dean got the courage to kiss John. 

Dean and John kept the… _thing_ between them, whatever it was, away from Sammy. There was no way Dean could explain it to Sammy, because he didn’t even understand it himself. It was Dad. He always heard people say that his dad was handsome, but it wasn’t until he hit puberty that Dean really started to understand what people meant. And yeah, so they fooled around and it was a little fucked up, but their lives were fucked up. And they kept on until John disappeared and Dean went to find Sam at Stanford.

🚬

After they meet up again, months later, John offers Dean a cigarette, and Dean shakes his head. Says “Sammy doesn’t like it,” and John just knows, feels his heart drop into his stomach.

“Sammy doesn’t like it,” and his mind spins off, wonders how his boys started. Wonders if they were at it even before Sam ran off to Stanford (wonders if that’s why Sam left - or did Sam know about him and Dean, did Sam leave because John couldn’t keep his hands off his son?), back when Dean worshipped him, tried to be him.

The worst part is he knows that if they make Dean choose, it’ll always be Sam.

In the back of his mind, John knows this is his fault. Knows that Sammy probably left because of him and Dean, or just him. Couldn’t wait to get away from them. His shoulders droop with the weight of his mistakes. Dean and Sammy… he should have seen it coming. They spent so many years living in confined quarters, no personal space, practically sleeping on top of each other. This was bound to happen.

Disappointment twists in his gut at the loss of something he hadn’t admitted he was looking forward to. Dean won’t be following him back to his room, or slipping in after Sam’s asleep. Dean’s gonna stay in his own room, his and Sam’s, just on the other side of a too-thin wall, and the only company John’s gonna have tonight is his whiskey and cigarettes. And God help him, his ear pressed against the wall, listening to the sounds that used to be his.

John runs a shaky hand down his rugged, worn face. He’s four beers in and reaching for his bottle of whiskey - because being only slightly drunk tonight won’t cut it, won’t quell his disappointment, shame, and anguish - when he hears an indistinguishable, high pitched keening noise. John takes a swig straight from the bottle, not even bothering to find a glass, and once again feels his guts twist. It’s Sammy. 

He doesn’t have to see it to picture it in his mind.

Sam on his back, bent nearly in half with Dean above him, thrusting in again and again. And it’s easy to picture because how many times has he had Dean beneath him in that same position, seen his sweat drip onto his boy’s face, watched Dean’s tongue dart out to lick away the salty drops. Heard Dean make the same sort of sounds, a bit lower maybe, and raspier - smoke roughening his voice, stealing his breath so they pant a bit more as they move together.

He takes another drink, tries to will his dick down, tries not to get off on his sons fucking in the next room and memories of when it was him Dean wanted.

🚬

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Sammy gasps, over and over, his pleas in perfect time with dean’s ministrations. Dean shakes his head, leans down to whisper in Sammy’s ear

“Gotta be quiet, kiddo. Someone could hear.”

They both know that _someone_ is Dad.

🚬

By this point, John’s given up on calming himself. His dick is rock hard in his jeans, painfully so. He gulps from the now half-empty bottle, and against his better judgement, rubs idly at his straining dick. 

Sam’s getting louder, and the wall is shaking with the force of Dean’s thrusts, rhythm he learned from John, and knowing that his boy still wants to be him even if he’s given up some of their vices has him unbuckling his belt, popping open the button on his jeans, pulling his dick out to get a hand wrapped around it, and he groans softly.

The sounds next door stop, pick up in an instant, louder than before.

_Jesus Christ, kid,_ John thinks. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, not even hissing at the pain, and gives his neglected dick a few long strokes. God, he should not be listening to this, never mind getting off on it. He should go over there, barge in, put a stop to it. John knows he should. 

Problem is, he can’t move. Can’t do anything but listen more intently, mutter oaths when he hears his youngest son beg Dean.

He could have gone his whole life not knowing his youngest likes it hard, never hearing Sam’s voice gasp out pleas for “more” and _“fuck,_ Dean, there.” 

Worse yet is Dean’s voice, choked with passion and low enough John strains to hear, “you like that baby?” and “gonna take care of you.”

It’s sick and it’s wrong and it’s all his fault and God help him because just the sounds in the next room are better than any fuck he’s had since he left Dean behind to chase after his demon.

“That’s it, Sammy,” Dean coos, and John can picture the scene as if it were playing out before him: his youngest sprawled out on his back, long, bony limbs askew, lips parted as he looks up at Dean, begs _harder faster more don’t stop, Dean…_

John groans as he palms his cock, cups his heavy balls. He is too far gone now to care that he is listening to his sons fuck in the next room, and getting off on it. The moans grow louder for a moment, then stop - John assumes that Dean had to remind Sammy to be quiet, again.

The next thing he hears makes his blood run cold. 

_“Daddy.”_

And _fuck,_ he has to grip his base tight, fight off a conditioned response to that word in that tone, remembers back when things with Dean were new and his boy called him “daddy” for the first time in years. Back when Sam _stopped_ calling him “dad,” and he grew to hate the sound of his own name coming out of his youngest’s mouth. But Dean would call him “daddy,” look up at him so sweet, felt so good riding his dick, and he told himself it was worth losing Sam to gain this.

And then he walked away, and lost Dean too. And Sam’s calling Dean “Daddy,” and Dean’s growling “That’s right, baby, gonna take good care of you,” and John’s left in a lonely room with a cigarette and nearly empty bottle of whiskey.

Empty now, the last drops drained while he presses his ear against the wall, listens for Sam to say “daddy” again. Wonders if Sam can’t, if Sam’s got his mouth stuffed with Dean’s dick right now.

He hears nothing at first, save for the sounds of his gasping, ragged breaths. He’s only halfway gripping his cock, too caught up in what he might hear. Squeezes his eyes completely shut, presses his ear even harder against the wall.

“That’s it, baby, yeah. Your mouth, Sammy, your fuckin’ _mouth._ Takin’ such good care of Daddy. Yeah…”

John is surprised at how _wrecked_ Dean’s voice is. He angles his head so he’s a bit more comfortable. And then…

“D… Daddy,” Sam gasps out, voice hoarse. “P… please.”

John hates himself. Hates himself for driving away not one, but both of his boys.


End file.
